


Apostate's Landing

by DeCarabas



Series: Fugitives Together [46]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4271049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeCarabas/pseuds/DeCarabas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cabin on the Storm Coast, a copy of Anders' manifesto, and signs of blood magic. Set shortly before Inquisition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apostate's Landing

It had been far too long since Hawke last had a roof over his head, and he looked around the little cabin appreciatively as he followed Anders inside, shaking the water off his oiled cloak.

They’d been following rumors of templar troops in the Storm Coast. There was a little group of mages holed up in the hills to the east, some of the ones who’d gone into hiding when Fiona led the vote for independence—a bunch of kids out of Kinloch Hold, mostly. There was one senior enchanter with them, but most of the others were technically still apprentices, too young to have been through their Harrowing before the templars started cracking down in the wake of Kirkwall. If the templars were here looking for that group, they wouldn’t stand much of a chance on their own.

But the Storm Coast was living up to its name that day—Hawke could barely keep sight of Anders through the heavy rain, nevermind tracking down anyone else, and they’d finally had to give up for now and find someplace to wait out the worst of the weather.

He’d spotted the cabin earlier, before the storm really picked up, but they hadn’t intended to seek shelter there at first; knocking on strangers’ doors didn’t exactly get them a good reception very often, not with the way the war was going. Instead they’d tried to take shelter in one of the caves that dotted the coast.

Unfortunately, they’d turned out to be sharing their shelter with deepstalkers, of all things—there must have been an opening to the Deep Roads somewhere in the caves, because more of the little pests just kept popping up. Easy as they were to deal with, Hawke couldn’t figure out where they kept coming from, and both of their mana reserves had been running low before they even entered the cave—lyrium was in high demand these days, with both the mages and the templars needing fuel for the war, cut off from the Chantry’s easy supply. The smugglers were having a field day. And with the stone tunnel close around him and the creatures’ cries in the darkness, the sound of his own breath echoing off the walls, calling up memories of wandering lost in the Deep Roads with Carver’s sickness setting in, and with Anders beside him looking paler by the minute—

They hadn’t stuck around to figure out where the pests were coming from. He’d write to Carver about it; if the Deep Roads had opened up somewhere along the coast, the Wardens would want to know.

They’d made for that cabin instead and found the place empty, which simplified matters. There was no shortage of abandoned homes in the path of the war, but this place didn’t have the look of that—the building was whole and undamaged, and although it was sparsely furnished, it didn’t look like someone had packed in a hurry to flee. A single flower sat in a vase on the table, long dead and wilted, the only sign of how long ago the last occupant had left. Maybe it was a rarely-used hideaway; or maybe the owner had stepped out and run into the deepstalkers or the templars; or maybe the owner would turn up on the doorstep at any moment, it was anyone’s guess.

With the ease of long habit, they split up; Anders moved to the door leading deeper into the cabin to make sure there were no unpleasant surprises waiting for them, while Hawke turned over the main room for anything useful. There wasn’t much to it: a few tables formed of boards stacked on top of empty crates and barrels, a few books and papers lying on top, a woman’s portrait hanging on the wall, and a small Tevinter-made chest tucked away in a corner.

Hawke let out a low whistle as he lifted the lid of the chest, revealing the cool glow of lyrium—a dozen or so bottles sitting in two neat little rows, more than he’d seen in one place since the war started. Picking one up, he thought with longing how nice it would be not to feel like he’d been scraped raw after every battle; to feel the coolness of Anders’ healing aura wash over him without worrying about the strain it was putting on him.

Quite a find. And Anders would definitely want to give them to those mages holed up to the east. Or sell them, put the money to a better use—mana replenished on its own, food and medicine didn’t. Hawke had to admit, he couldn’t really justify swiping a dozen lyrium bottles for their own use, not at the prices they were going for these days.

So he only swept four of the bottles into his own pack. He'd let Anders decide what to do with the rest, but nothing wrong with hanging onto a little for themselves.

Seeing that much lyrium stored in one place had piqued his interest about the cabin’s owner, but the books and papers scattered around the table didn’t reveal much of interest. A dry history of Tevinter and Seheron, a few pamphlets and loose pages—

_Andraste suffered at the hands of magisters. Thus, she feared the influence of magic…_

Hawke stopped and reread the paper he was holding as the familiar words registered. A disbelieving smile spread across his face.

 _But if the Maker blamed magic for the magisters' actions in the Black City, why would he still gift us with it?_ _The oppression of mages stems from the fears of men, not the will of the Maker._

“Anders!” he called out. “Love, you’ve got to see this!”

Anders’ manifesto had somehow wound up in Ferelden. This wasn’t Anders’ handwriting, either—someone must have been so inspired that they’d made their own copies and passed them around; there were even notes in another hand in the margin. The paper was worn and creased, like it had been handled often; someone had been reading Anders’ words over and over again.

Whoever owned this cabin, this manifesto really mattered to them. Hawke had to see the look on Anders’ face.

At the bottom of the page, Anders’ fan had added a few lines of their own.

_The fears of men? If they stay away, there will be no fear. This place is remote enough._

_Strange to hear no one talking in the other room, to feel no eyes watching me. I miss it sometimes. But if that was not the will of the Maker, then perhaps this is._

His smile slowly soured. The message was vague, but he’d gotten into the habit of jumping to the worst conclusions—they tended to be the right ones—and he wasn’t sure he wanted to read between those lines. Still, maybe he was reading too much into it—

“There’s bodies in the basement,” Anders announced as he walked back into the room, fists clenched.

Of course there were.

“Someone’s been doing a lot of blood magic,” Anders continued. “If we’re going to spend the night here, we should burn the bodies. Chances are they’ll get up and start trying to eat us.”

Hawke grunted his agreement. He doubted Anders noticed; he’d started to pace back and forth, tight, rigid movements; sheer disgust rolled off him, so strong as to be nearly palpable.

“Why is it always blood magic? The moment people get a taste of freedom, this is what they do with it?” Words full of bitterness. Blue lines scattered across his skin and vanished again. “People spend their whole lives cooped up in a cage, being told they’re monsters—and now that the cage is open, they just can’t wait to prove everybody right about us.”

Hawke closed the book on the table, leaving the manifesto hidden between its pages.

It was the start of a familiar rant; the lines of it had become well-worn in the chaos since the Circles started to fall. This wasn’t exactly the first blood mage gone bad that they’d come across recently.

If the mages were going to break free of the Chantry, things would get worse before they got better; neither of them had ever nursed any illusions about that, Anders least of all. But knowing that didn’t make seeing the reality of it any easier to stomach.

The templars’ wrath, the fears of the common people, the Circle mages’ complete unpreparedness for the outside world, the temptation of all that had been forbidden—and the simple fact that mages were people, not paragons of virtue, just as prone to viciousness and violence as everybody else, and sometimes those common people’s fears were justified—it all added up to a blighted mess of an adjustment period. And with lyrium growing harder to come by, every drop of blood spilled in this war was a reminder of the power source right underneath their skin; with one taboo broken, it became easier to break another, and then another, and then another, and with the constant threat of templars pushing them to ever greater acts of desperation—

This wasn’t really freedom. Not yet. The cage doors were open, but that wasn’t being free, that was just being on the run, with all the fear and desperation that came with it.

Freedom—that was what Anders had called Hawke’s childhood sometimes, growing up in a family of apostates; the kind of freedom all mages should have, he’d said. And it _was_ freedom compared to how Anders had grown up, Hawke knew that. The kind of freedom that had allowed him and Anders to enjoy a life together. Sometimes he imagined what it would have been like had he met Anders in a Circle, knowing that one wrong word to the wrong templar could get him transferred to another tower, never to see Anders again, not even being able to trust that letters sent would be delivered instead of confiscated and discarded.

But even so, he hadn’t felt very free during his father’s hushed, hidden lessons, teaching him the bare minimum to make sure he didn’t burn the village down, didn’t get himself caught. Always keeping to themselves, always making sure they were kind and friendly enough that the neighbors didn’t resent that strange, distant family, but never friendly enough to let anyone get too close. Bethany being scolded for spending so much time at the village chantry, with its templars who seemed so harmless; Carver being scolded for showing off with the sword, never able to take the chance of standing out, of drawing attention to his siblings. Always looking over one shoulder, ready to run.

It wasn’t the cage of the Circle. But a life lived in fear and in hiding was a poor sort of freedom, and that was all the rebel mages had bought themselves so far: the life of an apostate. They were still just as desperate as the mages of the Gallows had been, and sometimes, just as ready to drag everyone else down with them.

What Anders had done in Kirkwall, what Hawke had supported him in doing—that had given the mages the chance to buy themselves true freedom, for the apostates and the Circle mages alike. They weren't there yet, but they had a chance.

But what they’d done in Kirkwall had also given one mage the chance to build a pile of corpses in the basement of this cabin. He wasn’t the first. He wouldn’t be the last. They’d set free every bit of chaos and resentment that the Circles had allowed to build up over the ages, him and Anders, and they couldn’t control the fallout, for good or ill.

The justifications didn’t make that go away.

Anders shook his head, anger fading, leaving only weariness behind. He looked toward the window. “The storm’s let up a bit. What do you think—do we press on after all? I don’t like just leaving this be, but—”

“No telling when the owner of this cabin will be back—if they’ll be back. You’re right.” Hawke nodded, looking around the cabin one more time. He'd really, really liked the thought of having a roof over his head for once. So much for that. “The templars we can do something about. Bring on the rain.”

Anders smiled gratefully. “Oh—what was it you wanted me to see, love? I hope whatever you found is better than mine.”

Hawke didn’t hesitate before lifting the lid off the Tevinter chest with a flourish, unveiling the lyrium stockpile, and he grinned wide as he saw Anders’ expression.

He didn’t glance at the closed book where Anders' manifesto stayed safely hidden away.


End file.
